The Things We Keep(21)

“Where are you off to?” I ask as she skips past me.

“Jamaica for a week with the girls.” She turns and starts jogging backwards. “Sorry I won’t be around for your first week. Eric should be here any minute, so make yourself at home. Hey—cool dancing last night,” she says to Clem. “You gotta show me your moves when I get back.”

Clem beams, and Rosie turns and jogs away before she can find out she has a friend for life.

Inside, a couple of residents mill about in the parlor, and Clem wastes no time launching into conversation with an old man named Laurie. She tells him about school; her best friend, Legs; the fairy princess party she had for her birthday. I sit beside them.

“Hey! Is someone going to help me out of bed, or am I going to spend the day in my jammies?”

The voice that fills the hallway is brittle and irritated. “That’s Bert,” Laurie explains. “He needs a little push to get him on his feet. His walker is beside the bed. Trish or Carole usually do it, but I think they’re helping other residents right now.”

I nod, trying not to let my uncertainty show. “Well … I suppose I could do it.”

“Second door on the left,” he says helpfully.

I head in the direction the man pointed, and peek around the corner. Thankfully, Bert greets me with an expression much warmer than his voice. “Oh, it’s you. Just a little push, then, girlie. And don’t go getting any ideas just because I’m a good-looking son of a gun. I’m a married man.”

He’s either joking or senile, because Eric told me the only married couple at Rosalind House was the Southern couple, Clara and Laurie. Either way, I decide to leave the “married” comment alone. “You’re safe with me,” I say, shoving him to his feet. “I’m off men. Even good-looking ones.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, out with you. I have to get dressed.”

Out in the corridor, I hesitate. Are any other residents stuck in bed? Am I supposed to be tapping on all the doors, opening blinds, and wishing all a good morning? There’s still no sign of Eric, so I have to improvise. The door next to Bert’s is still closed, so I tap lightly. When there’s no answer, I open the door. “Good morning. It’s Eve, the … cook. Do you need any—? Oh!”

I jump back when I see the Southern woman—Clara?—standing inside, in front of a mirror, naked from the waist up. I pull the door closed again, leaving it only slightly ajar. “I’m so sorry,” I say into the crack, and at the same time, I hear keys rattling in the front door.

I race to the foyer.

“Sorry I’m late,” Eric says. “How’s it been going?”

“Actually,” I say, “Bert needed help getting out of bed, and afterwards, I thought I’d check on the others. But then I walked in on one of the ladies half-dressed. I did knock, but I suppose she didn’t hear.”

Eric chuckles. “First of all, breathe. And try not to look so worried. You’re probably more embarrassed than she is.” I wonder how Eric figures this, since I didn’t mention which resident I walked in on. “And it’s my fault, really, for being late,” he continues, looking at his watch. “Speaking of which, I don’t mean to drop you in the deep end, but I only have about an hour until my first appointment. How about we get started?”

Eric and I go over mealtimes, appropriate food, and location of utensils, but that takes less than ten minutes. For the rest of the hour, Eric details the cleaning instructions. He has a nervous habit, I notice, of glancing around every few seconds, which has the unfortunate side effect of making him appear shifty. Worse, on a couple of occasions, I noticed his gaze lingering near my chest. I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it’s an accident.

He shows me my “office,” which is also the room where the mops and buckets are kept, and he reminds me to wear a mask and gloves while dealing with urine or feces. When he sees my face, he reminds me that the cleaning job will be just for a little while, but when I ask if he’s had any applications yet, he’s swift to move onto another topic. I’m introduced to twelve residents. Luke and Anna, the young ones. Clara and Laurie, the Southern couple. Bert who still talks to his wife, even though she is fifty years dead. May, ninety-nine years old. Gwen. A handful of others. I’m also introduced to the care manager, Trish, a brisk, forthright woman in her early forties who would be pretty if she weren’t so alarmingly thin, and Carole, her assistant, a blond, thick-waisted woman in her fifties with a droning, adenoidal voice.

We do a lap of the grounds again, and when we’re done, Eric glances at his watch and assures me that everything we haven’t covered is outlined in the 150-page manual. Five minutes later, Eric is back in his office and I’m ready to cry. But the residents are hungry. So I have to do what I do best.

I put out cereal, fruit, and orange juice, then I scramble some eggs and smoked trout. I make a side of spinach and mushrooms, but when it comes time to garnish, I can’t find a single herb. I make a mental note to talk to Angus about starting a vegetable and herb garden; then I head out to the dining room.

The room is surprisingly loud, and I’m pleased to see they’re eating and, by the look of it, enjoying the meal. Even though she’s already eaten, Clem is sitting at the head of the table like the lady of the house. I try to remove her, but when I do, the residents give me such dirty looks, I have no choice but to back away.